


Kintsukuroi

by Glowbug



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Angst, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Kidnapping, Nightmares, Parallel Universes, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Unwound Future, slightly Ace Attorney crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4761791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowbug/pseuds/Glowbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the events surrounding the Azran Legacy, a certain ex-assistant comes face to face with her past. Can Emmy face down her demons in time to help Luke and Flora save the professor?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME!
> 
> This fic is what I've been working on for the last several months and it's still not finished (ack), but here at long last is the first chapter for your reading pleasure. Chapter two might be done tomorrow or next month, who knows really, but it will get finished. The title will probably change. (The title has already changed once, actually.) :) Enjoy.
> 
> Word of warning: This is likely to get dark.

In the dream, I’m standing in an enormous room, all tinted by violet light. I should feel pain—I know I felt it before, even if that part of the memory is blurry and distant now. But I can’t feel anything.

There are four other light beams. One is empty. The girl in the burgundy robe all but charges at it, only to be knocked to the ground.

She turns to me. Her eyes are luminous, almost glowing, and when she speaks her voice echoes.

“Humanity will fall before its own choices. He would have been the first to try to save it.”

I lift a hand in front of my face. It’s covered in dried blood. _No._

“This isn’t how it happened,” I whisper. “Aurora, this isn’t what happened!”

“If the life of a friend means so little to you,” Aurora booms, “why should you care for the fate of the world?”

I didn’t. I’m dreaming. I have to be. I _didn’t do anything._

Did I? I thought the blood had dried, but now it seems to be dripping off my fingers. “No. Please, no…”

Aurora lifts her hands, and the light grows so bright it blinds me. “This is what you have become, Emmy Altava. This is what you chose.”

A tone sounds through the entire room. “Kurain Village. Next stop.”

* * *

 

What?

I sit up straighter, gasping. “Estimated arrival time, seven minutes,” the train’s loudspeaker continues.

I _was_ dreaming, damn it.

I must have been out for most of the train ride. The view from the window has changed from flat ground and smog to snow and tree-covered mountains. Snow… I haven’t seen snow since the winter I spent in Peru, and before that, not since London.

My camera!

…is in my lap, right where it was when I nodded off. I turn the dials. I’ve always found it comforting to play with them but best I get them properly reset before the train arrives.

It doesn’t take long. Kurain is the most Japanese-looking town I've ever seen, except in Japan. I step onto the platform, slinging my rucksack over my shoulders. The chill bites through my damp shirt. I just _had_ to have a nightmare on the way here, didn’t I? I zip up my jacket.

"Gracious, Takara, is that you?!"

My head whips around: an old woman in pale blue robes is hobbling full-speed in my direction. Harmless, but I should have seen her coming. _Sloppy, Emmeline. Never stop watching!_ That’s what Uncle Leon would have said.

The woman fingers the stone charm around her neck with one gnarled hand, and plucks a wayward curl from my braid with the other. “Why, what have you done with your hair?”

“Don’t touch me!” I step back, out of her reach.

The woman glares. “Think you’re too good for your old aunt now, do you? You and that fellow of yours—”

"Mystic Hoshi!"

A girl of about thirteen scurries onto the platform, distracting the old woman from her scrutiny of my hair. She’s dressed in the same style of robe, but hers is shorter, and pink. "Mystic Hoshi," the girl says, "you're getting confused again. Mystic Takara died a long time ago, remember?"

“Died? Oh no, that can't be right. Just look at her, Morgan!“

“I’m Pearl, Mystic Hoshi.” The girl pales a few shades. "Mystic M-Morgan is dead now, too." She turns to me. "Please forgive Mystic Hoshi, honorable visitor. She is very old and her mind sometimes wanders.” She folds her hands in a prayer position and makes a small bow. “Welcome to Kurain Village,” she recites. “My name is Pearl Fey—“

"Mrow!" A striped orange cat appears at the girl’s feet.

“—and this is Shoe!" Pearl adds, her face splitting into a grin. She leans down to scratch Shoe between the ears, looking her proper age for a minute instead of trying to be all adult. I almost laugh, but I can’t.

“You look very tired, honorable visitor. Are you all right? May I be of service to you?”

 _Focus, damn it!_ “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m here to interview…” I check my notes. “The channeling master?”

Her face lights up. "Oh! You want Mystic Maya! This way, please." She takes Mystic Hoshi by the arm and leads us both down the hill. “Mystic Maya! Mystic Maaaaaaaaaya!”

A young woman with beads in her hair pops out of the largest of the houses. “Right here, Pearly! What’s going o—oh!” She looks me over with enormous brown eyes and suddenly, I’m aware of every stray hair. So this is the channeling master. I wasn’t expecting her to be so young.

“Mystic Maya, this is the reporter we were talking about,” Pearl announces. “Miss—um—“

“Em Altava,” I manage. “World Times.”

The channeling master shakes my hand. She’s dressed in a Steel Samurai t-shirt and no jacket, but doesn’t seem to notice the cold. “Maya Fey, Kurain channeling master,” she tells me. “I hope you’re not too let down by the outfit. I just came back from a month of waterfall training and all my spirit medium robes are covered in ice. Now I’m scandalizing the elders.” Maya turns, grinning. Black hair cascades over her shoulders as she leads me into the enormous front room. “This way. You should have let us know you were coming today! I could have worn my ceremonial outfit. It’s something, but I’d have to borrow it back from Global Studios. They’re modeling a new Pink Princess costume on it! The elders are pretty scandalized about that, too. Hey, do you like burgers?”

“Yeah—love them.” I wrap my arms tighter around my chest. I’m way too cold to be hungry, but I like to think I remember some social graces.

“Pearly,” Maya says, “take Mystic Hoshi home and then…” She whispers something in the younger girl’s ear.

Pearl immediately bows. “Yes, Mystic Maya!”

“Pearly’s my cousin,” Maya explains, “and next in line for the title of master.” Her face grows solemn as she watches Pearl go; then the smile returns, and the mischievous glint in her eye. “So Em, what would you like to know?”

I pull out my notebook. I’m still a reporter, and I have a job to do.

* * *

 

Three hours later, I’ve learned more about Kurain than I ever wanted to know. At least one person in every generation of the Fey clan seems to have been murdered, and my nightmare swims up before my eyes with the name of every new victim. Maya starts giving me odd looks. I decide it’s better to just take pictures.

At last we loop back to a winding courtyard and Maya starts grilling burgers. She’s launching into a tale about a cultural center and steadier electricity when the door bangs. Pearl skids in from the meditation room, the orange cat on her heels.

“Mystic Maya!” she calls down from the walkway. “He’s here!”

Maya straightens in an instant. “Well, bring him in, Pearly!”

Pearl streaks out the door again.

“What was that about?” I ask. More to the point: _he?_ Every person I’ve seen here has been female.

Maya smiles, the smile of someone who’s solved a riddle but isn’t quite ready to reveal the secret. I’d know it _anywhere._ Something twists inside my chest.

The door bangs again.

“Maya!” In rushes a teenaged boy whose gangling limbs belie the baritone voice. He’s wearing a half-buttoned lab coat over a deep blue sweater and he’s completely out of breath. For a few seconds he leans on the railing, gasping. “I came as quick as I could. Did—did I make it?”

Maya’s smile broadens. She nods in my direction. The boy shoves his thin round glasses higher on his nose. He looks me over, wide-eyed, and there’s something about the set of his mouth…

I jump up so fast I almost knock over my chair.

_“Luke?!”_


	2. Chapter 2

_“Emmy!”_

Only a lifetime of combat training keeps Luke’s flying hug from knocking me over. Every muscle in my body goes rigid, but it’s hard to argue with enthusiasm.

“Emmy, you’re here, you’re really here!”

When I pull back, our eyes are almost level. I can feel the corners of my mouth tugging upward. “Looks like _somebody_ finally had a growth spurt.”

Luke rolls his eyes with a very un-gentlemanly huff. I suppress a chuckle. Somebody’s still got his pride, too.

“So you two have met!” Maya says, with a slightly-too-innocent grin.

The penny drops. I stop smiling. “Clever. Whose idea was this?”

Luke turns red.

“I think I can spot a setup when I’ve walked right into it,” I say dryly. “Explain. Now.”

Luke straightens his spine, adjusts his glasses, and for an instant he looks a proper gentleman. “Miss Maya, I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced. This is Emmy Altava, my big sister—“

I shoot him a glance. He ignores it.

“—and Professor Layton’s star assistant!”

“Hang on a tic!” What is with this introduction? “We’re not even close to related,” I tell Maya, “and I haven’t worked with the professor in… in…”

“Five years, six months, and thirteen days.” Luke only shrugs in the face of my openmouthed stare. “It’s in my notebooks.”

“I… Luke, what are you doing in America, anyway?”

Luke’s mouth tightens. “I _live_ here.” He looks away. “You weren’t to know. My letters came back.”

“…Oh.” The old familiar ache fills my chest. I push it away. “All right, then what are you doing setting up excuses to bump into me?”

“Hey, that was hard!” His eyes flash. “The professor was looking for you for months, and then—”

A knot forms in my stomach. “What? Why?”

Luke blinks.

“Even Dariya doesn’t know where I am half the time. You got lucky. But I would have thought the professor knew I want to be left alone.” I reach for my bag. “Thanks for your time, Miss Fey.”

Luke grabs my arm. “Wait! You can’t just go! We need your help!”

I shake him off. My breath refuses to come smoothly; I force words out. “Wake up, Luke. Those days are over for me.”

“Hold it!” Maya plants herself on the steps to the walkway, blocking my exit. “Okay, I know this is really incredibly awkward, but at least hear him out!”

I respond with the icy tone I normally save for before a fight. “Professor Layton is more than capable of solving mysteries without my help.”

“Professor Layton is _missing,”_ Maya retorts. “Haven’t you seen the news?”

All the breath rushes out of my lungs. My knees turn to water and my rucksack falls from my shoulder. “You’re joking,” I whisper.

“She’s serious,” Luke says softly from behind me. “You… You didn’t know, did you?”

“He’s always running off on wild adventures.” My voice shakes. “That’s normal!”

“Not this time. Flora says his entire office was ransacked. She, um, she thinks someone took him.” I glance over my shoulder. In the fading sunlight Luke’s eyes look almost black, like buttons on a uniform. “Emmy, please, you have to help find him! Please!” He’s holding back tears. I haven’t seen him this upset since…

_“No! Come with us…!”_

The world tilts on its axis. I push past Maya and run.

 

* * *

 

_Thwack._

Fighters don’t cry. It’d be in the rulebook, if there was one. Bit like the gentleman’s code that way. I confess I’m not certain of the official stance on throwing snowballs at trees.

_Thwack, thwack._

Barging into my life out of nowhere—who does Luke think he is?

_Thwack._

The stream at the edge of the village froze over weeks ago, from the looks of it. One of my snowballs misses its target and smashes to bits on the ice. It’s a narrow stream, and damn it, it’s nothing like Lake Kodh. The only similarity is the way the sunset glares into my eyes.

What the hell did Professor Layton get himself into?

_Thwack._

Someone clears her throat; I turn around. “Nice aim,” Maya says.

I stuff cold hands in my pockets and look away.

“You okay? You looked like you were about to join the spirit world back there.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a _terrible_ liar,” she says. I glare at her. She puffs her cheeks out. “And it gets really cold out here at night, so unless you’re planning on intense spiritual training you better come back in.”

I lob another handful of snow at the tree.

“So about what happened back there…” Maya touches my arm.

“Don’t touch me!” I jerk away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sorry. It’s okay.” Maya tucks her hands into her long sleeves. “Um… we saved you some burgers.”

“I’m not hungry.” _A true gentleman—or lady, naturally—always remembers their manners._ “Thanks, though,” I add quietly.

Maya nods. “Luke’s told me all kinds of stories about you, Em. I’m glad to have finally met you, even… you know, like this.”

I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. The chill is starting to cut through my jacket. Maya’s right; it’s time to go inside. I move away from the tree, and fall in beside her as she starts back over the snow trail I broke coming out here. “No doubt he made me sound like some sort of hero. I’m not… sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, he’s gotten lots better about that,” Maya says cheerfully. “Once in a while he even admits the professor’s human—“ She breaks off mid-sentence, turning red.

“Tell me what happened,” I blurt out. “Please?”

Maya shoots a sympathetic glance my way; I keep my eyes trained forward. “I don’t know a lot,” she says. “He was investigating something—something really big, and he wouldn’t even tell Luke any details. And I know he set Luke to looking for you…”

I bite my lip before another _why?_ finds its way out.

“…but that was a few months ago. I think Luke got someone to mess with your reporting assignments. He’s been _convinced_ you’d show up here sooner or later.”

“I’m going to kick my editor into next week,” I grumble.

Maya laughs—a clear bell sound, warm in the icy twilight. “Please don’t.” She leads me around the side of the building, away from the main doors. “This is where our guests sleep—I brought your bag. Take time to think. Pearly and I will keep Luke occupied for a bit.”

I nod, pulling off my boots. Maya catches my eye and this time, I feel as if she’s looking right into my soul.

“Em. They obviously believe in you. Let them, okay?” She’s gone before I find my voice.

“They shouldn’t,” I whisper to the empty room.

When staring at the walls grows intolerable I curl up on a futon, clutching the pillow against the hollow place in my chest.

 

* * *

 

In the middle of the night someone’s sob drags me out of a restless doze. Halfway across the room a lump quivers under a blanket. I stay still. Better if I pretend to be asleep.

Luke sniffles. “Pr’fess’r…”

Something twists in my chest. I sit up. Luke gasps, and the sobs drop down to a whimper as he buries his face in his pillow, pulls the blanket over his head.

“Luke?” I push back my covers, crossing the room on hands and knees. He doesn’t answer me, but he doesn’t tell me to buzz off, either. “I’m sorry,” I say. “About earlier.”

“S’ok,” he chokes out. “Emmy… ‘m scared…”

Healways wanted to be just like the professor. But being a rock in the universe is hard, especially when you’re still a kid. I reach out, tugging back a corner of the blanket. “Me too.”

Luke lifts his head. His face is swollen; I can see that by moonlight. I wrap my arms round my knees, not trusting myself to hug him again.

“He’s tough,” I say. “I mean, he can make it through just about anything, Luke.”

“Y-yeah, but… he wouldn’t tell me’n Flora hardly _anything_ and… I just, I _know_ he’s in trouble.” Luke sits up, wiping his face on his sleeve. “If I didn’t have to finish my stupid exams—!” That sets off a fresh wave of tears.

“Hey… sprout…” There may be nothing worthwhile to say. What I come up with is pathetic. “I honestly can’t see the professor wanting you to skip school.”

“I _hate_ school!” Luke sobs. “Everyone makes fun of me, they say I’m a f-f-fa—“

He doesn’t even need to finish the slur; raw fury displaces my exhaustion. “Whose heads do I need to crack?!”

And Luke laughs. A very wet laugh, but a laugh.”Th-thanks. Um, they’re letting me finish early if I pass all my tests so I, um, I’d get in trouble.”

“All right, no head cracking then.” My blood boils anyway. “Bloody _hell._ That’s horrible though!”

Luke nods. “I thought maybe it was true for a while,” he says very quietly. “I never really get interested in girls like the other guys do, but… I don’t think I like guys either. I don’t think I like anyone like, like that.” He curls into a little ball; he still looks so, so young. “There was… Aurora…”

The two of them got so close on that trip. _The final key, the blood of the guardian…_ No, damn it. I bite my lip. Now is not the time to space out.

“B-but she was special,” Luke’s saying. “No one at school talks to me anymore. I think, I think maybe I’m broken.”

“No.” The word falls out unbidden. “Luke, no one with a heart as big as yours could ever be broken.” I put both hands on his shoulders, the way the professor used to do. “So you’re not interested. Or not unless there’s something really special, maybe. So what?”

Luke smiles weakly, wiping a tear off his cheek. “So I’ve gotta finish my exams, I guess. But… the professor…”

I take a deep breath. Time to stop putting off the decision. There was never really any question.

“All right… the professor’s been kidnapped, and the star apprentice is stuck a third of the way round the world.” Luke nods. “I suppose I’d best be going to London, then.”

“Really?!” My turn to nod. He throws his arms around me. “Emmy, thank you! Thank you so much…”

I gently push him back, swatting a hand across my stinging eyes. “Don’t get all excited. I’m not staying. It won’t be like old times.” I shrug. “I… kind of owe him. If I can help make sure he’s found safe, that’s what I’ll do. That’s as far as it goes. All right?”

Luke blinks. “…Okay.”

He’s giving me a funny look, but I’m way too tired for probing questions. “Get some sleep, kiddo. I bet you have school tomorrow.”

“Mmm.” He snuggles back down into his blankets. “…Emmy? Sing for me?”

I shake my head, reach out, ruffle his hair. “Silly.” Eighteen, and still asking for lullabies. But I hum the one I used to sing him on our adventures, when he had nightmares or trouble falling asleep. It was my father’s lullaby, so far back I can barely remember, but for Luke I changed the words a little.

_Go to sleep, my baby brother,_

_Go to sleep, my little hero._

I wait until Luke’s breathing turns deep and even, till I’m certain he’s sleeping, before I sing to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And chapter three arrives at last! For those not familiar with Ace Attorney, rejoice: you'll be seeing primarily Laytonverse characters and a few OCs from here on out.

Maya rouses us at the first hint of daylight the next morning. Rouses Luke, rather. I've long since given up on sleep and started fiddling with my camera again. (I know every setting of the dials and every scratch on the body, even in darkness.) She feeds us pancakes. Luke makes a credible effort at his; I manage a few bites. They're good, so good, and they stick in my throat.

We see Luke off on the early morning train. "I'll be there," he tells me, reaching from the window. "As soon as I finish my exams, I promise I'll be there. And I'll try to ring Flora but she hasn't been home very much..."

I take his hand in both of mine. "We'll find him. Just hang in there."

Three hours later, with my tickets booked and my film tucked away in my bag, Pearl intercepts me on the train platform.

“Mystic—I mean, Miss Emmy, you should take this as a mem—memor— _memento!”_ She holds out a silk pouch. I take it, empty it into my hand. It’s one of those spiral-like charms the mediums wear, on a thin silver chain. The pale violet stone feels… warm, somehow, in my hand. I turn it over, and for a moment a seed of bluish light seems to bloom inside it.

A chill runs down my spine, and I quickly stuff the charm back in the pouch. “Pearl, that’s really generous, but—“

“For luck, Miss Emmy. For protection.” Pearl’s voice almost echoes. I step back; the intensity in her eyes frightens me. “You’ll need it.”

* * *

I try to sleep on the plane. The professor, for all he'd get carried away researching all night, was always quite firm about at least trying to get some rest during investigations. Something to do with the "keep a clear head" philosophy. I suspect it was more for Luke’s sake than for his own, but it seems only right to conduct a search for him in a manner he'd approve of.

But I dream.

_I can't let my excellent assistant put herself in danger…_

No. Professor, no! Not for me!

The silence in the cavern stretches on forever. Uncle Leon taps his foot impatiently. Then we hear the scream.

My uncle sighs, and motions me onward. I can't move. _This was my fault..._

I wake with a hundred knots in my neck and back and teeth clenched so hard I start to get a headache. The next time the drinks cart comes by, I order the stiffest mix they've got.

I have no suitcase to collect at the airport. It would be quicker to hail a taxi, but instead I take the metro to the university district. London in December is miserable; no sign of snow, but the sky's gray and a cold, clammy wind chafes my face.

Gressenheller looms up when I emerge from the metro station. I think the place must be ageless--it looks _exactly_ the same. My throat tightens. I ought to have changed clothes before coming down here—I’m a wrinkled mess from the flight. Bit late for that now. My feet know where they're going. I find myself outside the archaeology building in no time at all.

Here, something _is_ different—the entire building is cordoned off with bright yellow tape, and guarded by police. I fiddle with the end of my braid. I assumed the Yard would be through collecting evidence by now—that I could just slip in and look around. Evidently not. There must still be something here worth investigating… or something they don’t want the wrong eyes to see. I’ll have to convince someone to let me past.

I don’t see anyone I recognize. That might be for the best. I sidle up to the nearest officer. “What’s happened here, then?”

The police officer gives me what might be intended as a winsome smile. “No need to worry, pretty miss; we at the Yard have it all under control.”

I resist the urge to punch him right on his bulbous nose. Instead, I put on a smile of my own. “Well, a girl has to keep up with current events, doesn’t she?” I lace my fingers behind my back, leaning forward a little. “I bet you’ve got some amazing photo material in there.”

“Oh, aye, it’s a sight!” The fellow’s eyes light up.

I have a try at batting my eyelashes. “I don’t suppose… you’d be willing to give me a tour?”

His smile broadens for a second but he shakes his head. “Don’t I wish! Worth my job ’ere, miss. Orders are, nobody nohow comes in here without permission from—“

“Top o’ the morning, Chesterfield!” The ground practically vibrates as a second policeman zooms up. “I trust you’re keeping out all the suspicious—jumping Jehoshaphat, it’s _you.”_

I should have guessed. “Hello… Inspector Grosky.”

“That’s _Chief_ Inspector to you, missy! What’re you doing here?”

I feel very much as if I’m sixteen again, being arrested for pickpocketing. I square my shoulders. “I’ve heard about Professor Layton. I’d like to help. I thought Officer Chesterfield here might be willing to show me the crime scene, but he’s explained to me—“

“I should _hope_ he has!” Grosky bellows. “This here’s a critical investigation! We’ve got no time for double-dealing mole-rats like you!”

 _“Hey!”_ I clench my teeth, taking a deep breath before I blurt out something careless. “Look, I know this is a big favor to ask after everything that’s happened, but I promised Luke—“

“I don’t care if you told him you’d swim the bloody channel! Off my crime scene, before I haul you in for crossing a police line!”

I don’t bother to point out that technically, I _haven’t_ crossed it. It’s clear what he thinks. “I’m not here because of Targent, Grosky.”

“Oh, aren’t you!” he shouts, so close I feel his breath on my face. “I s’pose you’ve also got no notion ’bout those crazy symbols all over the walls!”

“What?”

“OUT!” Grosky flings a pointing hand toward the main entrance of campus, looking very much as if he’d like to throw me there.

I spin on my heel. “I’m going.”

* * *

_That_ went well.

I sit in the bus stop, hands clenched, shaking.

About a hundred police officers asked me questions about Targent after my uncle was arrested. Grosky wasn’t one of them. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye. I never faced charges… but it’s no surprise that I’m out of the inspector’s good graces.

So the professor’s office is off-limits, and Scotland Yard certainly won’t be eager to help me out. What now?

“Ah! Can it be?” A familiar pink shirt waltzes into my line of vision. “It is! The daring, the dexterous, the discerning—“

I scramble to my feet. “… _Aldus?!”_

Aldus clasps his hands before his chest. “To encounter an old acquaintance in times such as these! It brings sunshine into my heart, even as I sorrow for the black clouds in your dress and demeanor!”

I glance down at my jacket—which is black leather, not the yellow one he probably remembers. “Uh… nice to see you, too.”

“But worry not!” Aldus declares. “For if you examine the space underneath that bench, you will find a wooden box…”

“…with a hint coin inside.” I lean down and flip the box in question over on its side. Sure enough, the familiar gold token falls out. _Clink!_ “That’s… great, but I’m not really into that kind of thing anymore.”

Aldus’s jaw drops; he runs a hand through his hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him speechless before.

“A shame hint coins don’t work on real life, isn’t it?” I pick up the coin, holding it out to him. “Keep it. You can give it to someone else.”

Aldus lifts his hand in a “halt” gesture and turns his head away. “No, no, my fretful friend! Consider it a token of our friendship, which must surely shine like stars even upon a cloudy night. And fear not: for as _la grand-mère_ would say, in the world there are puzzles with many solutions!” He bows to me. “Until we meet again!”

And… he’s gone.

I turn the coin over. It warms to my hand far more quickly than regular money. Does anyone really know what these things are made of? They seem to have been around forever.

Puzzles with many solutions…

He must have meant puzzles that have more than one way to find the answer, or… maybe puzzles it takes more than one person to solve?

The library tower clock chimes eight. The bus appears at the end of the street. I don’t wait for it; I dash across the street and run—first street on the left, then turn right by that tiny grocer, side of the building, up the stairs, and down to the flat at the end of the hall.

Breathless, I knock on Professor Layton’s door.

Silence.

I knock again, harder. Someone moves inside the flat. The door creaks open, and I gasp.

“Aurora—“

The girl blinks; but no, her eyes are bigger and darker, her face is rounder. Her hair’s a shade darker than Aurora’s, too, though it falls past her shoulders in the same soft waves. And she’s older, perhaps in university. Aurora was trapped as both an ancient messenger and a teenaged schoolgirl. Forever.

“Who are you?” the professor’s daughter asks.

 _Get hold of yourself, Emmeline!_ I swallow. “I’m—“ It comes out a squeak. Damn it. I reach into my pocket instead, pull out a photo. It’s all creased now, but it should be plain that the professor, Luke, and I are all in it.

It’s the only photo I’ve got like that. I hold it out to the girl. “Em… Emmy Altava. Luke asked me to come. C-Can I help?”

She looks up at me; takes the picture and studies it, keeping one hand on the door.

“I’m out of practice,” I offer, “but you can give me a puzzle if you like.”

A small smile forms on the girl’s lips. “I’m Flora.” She opens the door wider. “You’d better come inside.”


	4. Chapter 4

If I’m paying attention, I can pick out most people by the sound of their footsteps. But this Flora walks so softly I strain to hear her. I wonder what she’s heard about me; she keeps glancing back over her shoulder, like she’s afraid.

In the kitchen, she perches on the edge of a chair, tucking her slippered feet underneath it. “If—if you’re a friend of Papa and Luke… you must be awfully good at making tea.”

I fold my arms. “Is that a challenge?”

She nods.

“Clever. All right then.”

I set my rucksack down by the kitchen door. This tiny room is where the three of us spent the most time, when we weren’t in the professor’s office. The cabinets have picked up some stains and the odd scorch mark, but little else seems to have changed.

Right. I can do this.

I open what was once the tea cabinet. It still is: a row of tins greets me. I pull a few down, slide open a drawer for a spoon. My hands remember, even if they feel disconnected from my body. Fill the kettle, measure the tea into the china pot, turn up the gas a bit… In a few minutes the kettle whistles. I pour the water into the teapot.

The scent of the tea—the hint of sharp citrus and sweet cinnamon—fills my nose.

_“It’s_ my _turn to make the tea, Professor!”_

_“You can’t even reach the cabinet, sprout!”_

_“I am_ not _a sprout! I’m going to be a proper English gentleman!”_

_“Now, now, there’s no need for an altercation. Let me help you with those, my boy.”_

_“It’s all right, Professor, I can get them—unnf!—myself—”_

No—goddamn it, I’m busy! But it’s all wrong—standing in the professor’s kitchen making tea for a girl who looks entirely too frightened to hold her own in an investigation. I want the professor _here_ , making up puzzles over spaghetti—I want Luke begging me to make the tea sweeter—I want—

Damn it!

My hand jerks. Boiling water splashes from the kettle—across the counter, onto the floor, and over the back of my right wrist.

“Bloody hell!” I slam the kettle down and rush to the sink.

Flora gasps. “Are you okay?”

“What’s it look like?!” Already a blister’s forming.

Flora squeaks and scampers out of the room.

_We may need to work on your people skills, Emmy._

I wipe my watering eyes with my free hand. Just a burn. Just pain. _That_ , I can deal with. I leave my hand under the kitchen faucet till my bones start to ache from cold, then grab a dish towel. What a mess.

* * *

I’ve nearly got the spilled water mopped up when the girl returns, clutching a battered metal box. She halts in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. I wring out the sodden towel. Neither of us moves.

In her shoes, I don’t suppose I’d want to come near me, either.

“I think the tea’s all right,” I say at last. “If you want any.”

“It smells good,” she says in a near-whisper. “Um—I found the—“ She holds up the first aid kit. I step forward to take it from her, and she flinches.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I say quietly. “I never was so good at being a lady.”

“Is—“ She swallows. “Is that why Papa doesn’t talk about you?”

Now it’s my turn to recoil. What do I even _say_ to that? I bite my lip to keep from blurting out something cutting, bite it so hard I taste blood.

“S-sorry! I—I didn’t mean—“

“I don’t know why the professor does anything.” Which is a lie; one more for the list. “Besides, I haven’t seen him in almost five years.”

Gingerly, Flora sets the first aid kit down on the table. “But—you saw Luke?”

I pull out a chair. “A couple of days ago. Not before.” She’s probing for something. The question is, what. “Why, did _he_ talk about me?”

She cracks a smile. “Yes. A few months ago.” A soft _creak;_ she’s opened the cabinet where the teacups are. “He said you’d dropped off the face of the earth.”

I snort. “Trust Luke to spin it like that!” My fingers close around a mostly-empty tube of antibiotic ointment. The kit’s surprisingly well stocked… it used to be I was the only one who thought to refill it. But then, it was usually me patching up Luke’s misadventures, too.

China clinks. “What color were you?”

“Hmm?”

“Your tea things,” Flora says softly. “What color?” She holds up a cup and saucer, white, with pale pink rims. “These are mine.”

“There’s no way they’re still there,” I say.

She looks at me.

“…Yellow.”

Flora reaches far into the cupboard and produces a yellow-rimmed teacup. “Papa never throws _anything_ away.”

My mouth drops open.

“But I don’t see the saucer,” Flora says. She pulls a plain white one from a different shelf and steps over to the teapot. “So if you weren’t missing, where were you?”

I shrug. There were a number of interchangeable cesspools of humanity, and I don’t care to talk about any of them.

At last Flora says, “Do you take milk? Sugar?”

“Not today.” I riffle through a stack of plasters, finally locating one of a suitable size. Flora sets my teacup down on the table. I crumple the bandage wrapper into my left hand.

The tea steams. Flora cradles her cup in both hands, but doesn’t take a sip.

“Could I see that picture again?” she asks.

I draw it from my pocket, nudge it across the table. Her eyes shine like dark wells as she picks it up.

“You got to go with them. You didn’t get left behind.” She blinks, and a tear splashes on the wood tabletop. “ _You_ got to know what was going on, didn’t you?”

I pluck the photo from her hands. “Maybe once. Right now I know less than you do.”

Her eyes flash.

“I’m serious,” I say. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

“My adopted father is _missing!_ ” Flora yells, jumping out of her chair. “What kind of luck is that?!”

“What’s _luck_ is—!“ I’m on my feet before I notice I’ve moved. Only—if I say what I almost said, she’s bound to throw me out on my ear, just like Grosky. I take a deep breath. “It’s not important. But that’s all I know: that he’s missing. And that’s because Luke roped me into this. I need more information, Flora.”

She sits down again; picks up her teacup, silent.

“I don’t much care if you trust me,” I say, “but we both want the professor found and brought home safe, right?”

Flora doesn’t answer. I drop into my chair. The girl lifts her teacup to her lips. She sips cautiously. I see her eyes widen.

I _am_ pretty good at making the professor’s favorite tea.

“All right,” she says. “There’s… something I should probably show you.” She sets the cup down and, mouselike, slips out of the kitchen. I’m not sure if she wants me to follow or to wait, but I can’t seem to sit still. I step into the front room at the same moment she emerges from what once was Luke’s room and now must be hers.

“I found this in the office,” she says, “the morning he…”

In her hands is a torn, dented, but painfully familiar black silk hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: my awesome friend [revflooper](revflooper.tumblr.com) drew fanart of Flora in this chapter!!! (I'm still multiple-exclamation-points excited about this fact. Nobody's ever illustrated my work before! :D )


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After four months, a new chapter at last! Emmy and Flora are still not feeling cooperative…

I press a hand to my mouth. _Oh, hell—_

I can count on my fingers the times I’ve seen the professor’s hat anywhere but on his head.

Flora glares at me through brimming eyes. “Well?”

A chunk of my brain is still running:

_It’s evidence. Why does she have it and not Scotland Yard?_

_Arianna looked at us like that when we broke into the Barde mansion._

_“In times of crisis, it’s important to stay calm and remain rational.”_

_Oh, bloody hell, this is real._

My throat is so tight I don’t think I can speak. I swallow, and hold out my hands. _Can I see?_

Flora hugs the hat tighter.

“ _What_ was he investigating?” I choke out.

She blinks, and tears spill down her cheeks. “Why don’t you tell me?”

The words hit like a punch in the gut. “And how the hell would I know?”

But it was something to do with me. That’s all _anyone_ seems to know _._ No wonder Flora looks like she wants to hit me for real.

I drag in a breath. When you only have one lead, it’s not a good idea to walk away.

“Did he ever say why he was looking for me?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Papa hardly even sleeps lately… slept… and he wouldn’t tell me anything. He says—said—it’s dangerous and I’m to stay out of it.” She scowls, but down at the hat this time, not at me.

I brace myself on the back of the worn couch. “That’s the professor for you.”

I suppose he might have been worrying; he must have heard… but no, even Professor Layton wouldn’t spend three months on _that_. I shake the thought out of my head. Something else is going on here. What did Grosky say—symbols on the walls…?

“What?” Flora says.

I must be scowling now, too. “Nothing.”

She huffs. “A _lady_ doesn’t tell fibs.”

I resist the urge to stick out my tongue. “And I’m a _bloody awful_ lady. I told you before.”

Her eyebrows wrinkle a bit; I follow her gaze back to our abandoned teacups.

“If making tea were the only qualification I needed, I never would have left London.”

She wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her nightdress, cocks her head. I can only meet her eyes for a second. That quiet curiosity—the professor has that too. It almost always means I’ve let too much slip.

I turn away, back into the kitchen. “Hiding evidence isn’t so ladylike either, you know.”

A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my guess: Flora’s gone bright pink. I pick up my teacup and the white saucer, carry them over to the sink. “So is there more about that hat that you’d like to show me?”

Flora doesn’t answer. I hold my breath as I dump out my teacup, reach for the dish soap. Turn on the tap.

“I don’t know you,” she says at last.

I watch her from the corner of my eye. Soapy water runs over my hands.

“How do I know,” she’s saying, “that you’re not going to turn into Don Paolo or…”

“Who?”

She winces and looks away, shaking her head. She’s not going to tell me, and it’s probably not important.

Uncle Leon would say, _you’ll treat even the smallest detail with attention, Emmeline._ And the professor would tell me that we’re—that he’s—not going to force information out of a scared young lady. Is Flora scared? …I don’t know.

I swirl the water around in my teacup, and somehow all I want to know is what the hell happened to my saucer.

And that’s when there’s another knock at the door.

I turn around; Flora’s already vanished into that twist of hallway that doesn’t quite pass for a mudroom. I can hear the door chain rattling.

“Sergeant Barton? You’re early…”

And the hat’s there, sitting on the tea table like an undefended black pawn. Like bait—but it’s the only chance I’ll get. I leave the cup in the sink, brush past my rucksack, and snatch the hat up _._ Barton’s saying something to Flora, but I don’t listen. I’d have caught it for that, back in my training years.

The hat’s so light, like it could blow away. My heart thuds too loudly. _Focus._ I turn the hat in my hands. It looks as if it met the wrong end of a fallen stack of books. Maybe a fight? Even at his messiest, the professor wouldn’t leave this thing in harm’s way.

…Not by accident. But supposing he left it for us? It’s one thing no one who knows him would ever overlook.

There: a lump in the band, right under my fingers. I slip my hand inside the hat and find a slit in the lining, barely three centimeters long. I’d lay money on its being invisible to the untrained eye. Clever, Professor. Very clever. I slip thumb and forefinger inside the gap and grasp a tiny packet wrapped up in cling film.

Flora’s voice comes from the hallway. “I think there might be some tea left…”

By the time they round the corner, I’ve set down the hat, perched myself on the arm of the couch and palmed whatever the hell I just laid hands on. Barton’s eyes grow wide as silver dollars. “Miss Emmy! What are you doing here?”

“Congratulations on the promotion, Sergeant Barton,” I say in the most genial tone I can muster.

He blinks. “Eh?” But then his eyes crinkle and he grins. “Ah, that! Thanks! Going on a year now, you know!” He looks so proud that I start to smile in spite of myself. “Just checking on Miss Flora a’cos the situation with…” The smile vanishes in one sharp breath. “Oh, fudgemelons!”

Flora’s head snaps up. Barton flushes scarlet. “It’s nothing, Miss Flora. Er… nothing you ought to be alarmed over. It’s, ah, it’s the chief inspector. He’s, ah…” Barton scratches his head, bumping his cap to one side. At last he screws up his face and looks me in the eye. “He’s fit to be tied that you popped up, Miss Emmy.”

“I thought that might be the case when he threw me out on my ear.” I catch myself before I roll my eyes. “So you won’t be free to share details.”

He shakes his head.

Without the professor’s direct connections to the force, it was a long shot anyway. I stand. “I’ll see myself out, then.”

“Wait,” Flora says.

I pause, one hand on my rucksack.

She swallows. “Could you—maybe—come back later?”

I blink. “Are you serious?”

She nods.

Huh. I’d have thought she’d be glad to see me go. “All right. Around six, say.” I shoulder my pack.

Flora nods again.

I give Constable Barton— _Sergeant_ Barton—a quick salute, and walk out the door.

I pull the mystery packet from my sleeve a quarter hour later, alone in the washroom at the tube station. A cling-wrapped stack of brown plastic strips; photographic negatives. I hold one up to the light; it’s always difficult to make out an image the size of my thumbnail, but… a diagram, I think. Or a blueprint…

One way to find out for sure. I need a darkroom, double-quick.

I get on the tube.


	6. Interlude (Luke)

_“Of course I have copies. I’m not stupid.” Flora makes a grumbling noise into the phone. “I think I almost have the thing built, too. I just wanted to see what she’d do.”_

_“It doesn’t sound like you were very nice to her,” I say weakly._

_I can almost hear Flora rolling her eyes. ”Am I supposed to be nice to someone you and Papa so obviously want to protect me from that you never even said she existed until a few months ago?”_

_“We’re not—she’s not—” I almost say_ _she’s not dangerous,_ _but, well, she is, when she wants to be. Not to us, though, that much I’m sure of. “It’s a little like you and the village,” I say. “And when you first came it was so soon after she left… it’s hard. To talk about her.”_

_Flora’s quiet for so long I start to worry the connection’s gone dead. “There’s a story there,” she says at last. “And you’re not going to tell me, are you?”_

_“It’s not mine to tell, Flora. It’s hers.”_

_She huffs. “Fat chance I have of hearing it then.”_

_“You said you’d work with her!”_

_“I_ _will._ _Who said I had to be happy about it?”_

_I remember the haunted look on Emmy’s face when I first asked her to help, and I can’t think of anything to say._

_“I just want to bring Papa home, Luke. I don’t care what adventures you had with this woman.”_

_Liar_ _. But there’s no point hurting her feelings. “All right. So, what’s the story with the gadget? What’s it do?”_

_“I don’t know yet. I think I’ve got all the parts, but there’s something weird about the power source. It’s like the battery only powers part of the machine.” She yawns. “I’ve been researching the runes, the ones on the gears. I thought they might be a clue to where the pictures were taken. But… nothing yet.”_

_“Huh…” I chew on my lip._

_“Luke? What is it?”_

_I haven’t even seen the pictures, but my mind keeps coming back to the same thing.“Try, um, try_ _Ancient Histories._ _Rutledge.”_

_“…Isn’t he kind of a fruitcake?”_

_“Yeah.” I sigh. “But not as much as people think. This one time me and the professor—and Emmy—well—it’s a really, really long story…”_

_“I swear, Luke, if I hear that one more time!”_

_“I know! I know! I… I’m sorry. Just… try Rutledge. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there, okay?”_

_“…Okay.”_

_I’m starting to understand how the professor must have felt all those times he tried to protect Flora. But a gentleman should share as much useful knowledge as possible… especially in a crisis._

_The phone beeps loudly. “Flora, that’s my calling card running out. I have to go.”_

_“All right. I’ll call you tomorrow?”_

_“You bet.”_

_“…Luke? Take care, okay? I… I don’t know why, but I feel like something’s about to happen.”_

_“Me too,” I say. “I’ll be careful. You be, too.”_

_“Till tomorrow, then,” Flora says softly. We haven’t been saying “goodbye” this week. It just feels all wrong._

_“Till tomorrow,” I echo._

_Click._

_Bzzzzzzzzz…_

_“If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”_

_I hang up the phone. I stare at it for a really long time. Then I pick it up and dial._

_“…H’lo?”_

_“Maya, it’s Luke. I’m sorry, I guess I woke you up…”_

_“’S’all right.” She yawns, but I can hear her smiling. “What’s happening?”_

_“Um. It’s about the professor. I think… I think I need you to channel someone for me.”_

_“Oh?” Suddenly, Maya sounds wide awake._

_“Y-yeah. It’s just a hunch, well, more like a really bad feeling in my stomach, because of things the professor told me—well, more like things he_ _didn’t_ _tell me—and I don’t know what to think but—”_

_“Calm down.”_

_I take a deep breath._

_“Trust your intuition, Luke,” Maya tells me. “That’s what the professor would tell you, right?”_

_…Right._

_I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Look, is it okay if I come up… uh…” Darn it. There aren’t any trains this time of night. “Tomorrow? First thing after my maths exam?”_

_“Of course,” Maya says. “I’ll get everything ready for you. So,” and the smile comes back into her voice, “who am I channelling, anyway?”_

_“…A relative of Emmy’s. Sort of. His name is Leon Bronev.”_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo, as the fanfic writer tapped her keys by night, she said, "Let there be a new chapter!" And there shone a great light and a new chapter did appear!
> 
> …Well, that's one version. :) Merry Christmas! Sorry it took so long. I swear each successive installment gives me more trouble than the last.
> 
> Also, Flora seems to have decided this is her story too, not just Emmy's. (She's hard to write because her voice is so poorly established in canon, but you can guess what she thought of _that_ flimsy excuse.) So behold, a Flora viewpoint chapter! It's looking like the next two or three chapters will be Flora, too. We should be getting back into Emmy's head later on, though. Enjoy!

* * *

I hang up the phone.

_Brothers._

He’s so annoying sometimes when he tries to act like Papa, but wishing Luke wouldn’t try to be like Papa is like cursing moonlight for reflecting the sun. Okay. What will I do now?

I think there’s a copy of _Ancient Histories_ in Papa’s office. I could phone Sergeant Barton about it. But he’s sticking his neck out to help me already, and doesn’t know about the pictures. Better for me to go to the bookseller. And the electronics shop. Miss Altava’s coming back in seven hours; if I’m bound to work with her, I want more to show her than a fancy prototype.

She makes Papa’s tea better than Papa does. Luke says she’s like his sister (so what does that make me?) but he keeps stumbling on his words. And her teacup! It’s been in the cupboard for years, way at the back of the shelf that’s only for family, only for me and Papa and Luke. And her. No one ever told me that cup belonged to someone. I never thought to ask. For the first time in my life, I wish I could have gone on not knowing.

I go to get my coat.

* * *

Five hours later, I tape the rune I’ve made from heavy-gauge wire to my bedroom floor, under the clockwork arch. In the photos, it’s embedded in the floor; I took it for a decorative design until I found it in Rutledge. He goes on about it for three pages, but can’t decide if it means “light” or “energy” or “power” but in the sense of strength and authority, not electricity.

In any case, I’ve checked every other piece of the machine three and four and five times against the pictures. A single part in the wrong place could be the downfall of—whatever this device is. It’s ten times more capricious than my villagers’ circuits ever were.

Connecting the rune to the new battery pack I bought is the work of a moment; a few twists, some more tape, then a quick check to make sure all is exactly as it should be. _Our Father who art in heaven, if you could please make it work this time._ I throw the switch.

With an almighty creaking and grinding, the gears start to turn. My entire body tingles. The air in the middle of the arch ripples, and, and stretches, like it’s a jacket stretched much too tight. I catch a whiff of something sweet, sweet but alien, and my eyes start to feel fuzzy.

The battery makes a loud _pop_ and throws off a shower of sparks, breaking the spell. “Oh, mudpies!” I shut off the machine and run to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher.

Afterwards, I leave my window open and take Papa’s hat and the photos and Rutledge’s dratted book out to the sofa, away from the draft and the fumes and the mess. Then I pop back into my bedroom, holding my breath long enough to get the blanket my mama made me off my bed.

Luke would say, “That was a close one, eh, Flora?” and then he’d grin at me, and I’d know he didn’t feel like grinning but seeing him try would make things okay, a little bit. Papa would fuss awfully and then make me tea and help me try again. No. If Papa were here he’d still be all protective and distracted, worse than he was when I first came, and I wouldn’t know this machine existed to be built. But Papa would be here.

I was going to show her the machine when she comes back, because I don’t break my promises. Now it’s a mess. What will she make of it? Of me?

My head aches. I flip through Papa’s photos but the runes seem to swim right off the clockwork, mocking me. They’re so much more fluid this way, out of the confines of gears and cogs. I wonder… if Rutledge wrote about that at all.

 _Get up,_ I tell myself. _Cook supper._ I think I had some soup for lunch (wasn’t that today?), and I’m not very hungry, but…

Someone’s hammering out in the hall. Christmas decorations, maybe. I let go of the stack of photos and rub my eyes. Maybe a little rest would be okay. Just for a minute…

…

…

_BANG!_

My eyes pop open to a dark silhouette rushing at me. My limbs don’t work quite right _(blanket,_ some distant part of me says, _you’re under a blanket)_ and I scream for Papa before I remember. Papa’s gone. Taken. Are they coming for me too? What about Luke? What about CI Grosky and Sergeant Barton and Rosa and—

The black figure skids to a stop, grasping at its face—her face—less than a meter from me. “Flor…”

I get one hand free of the blanket. I rub my eyes. The black resolves into a scuffed biker jacket and a mass of tangled hair (not black, quite, more like molasses but not so smooth). “Miss… Altav…a?”

She huffs.

“How’d you… what’re you…?” The room swims. Words float just out of reach.

“You didn’t answer. I thought something happened. Who else has seen these photos?”

Photos…? Papa’s pictures. On the floor, scattered everywhere. And in her hands. I scramble to stand up; I feel like a puppet, pulling my own strings from afar. “You took the film. This morning. You didn’t ask or…” Standing up takes so many muscles all at once. I never noticed before.

Miss Altava’s eyes go wide; the stack of pictures vanishes (into her jacket?) and she steps right over the tea table, too close. “Flora, look at me.”

“Why?” I mumble. “‘M tired.”

“How many fingers?”

I try to look; her hand won’t stay still. “…Four?”

She mutters something sharp-sounding under her breath. “C’mon. We need to go outside.”

“ ’S’cold out there,” I protest. That’s why I’m in here, with the blanket, and not in my bedroom with the open window…

Something soft pushes into my arms. Jacket. My jacket. “Put that on,” she’s saying.

“Wait…” Something isn’t… something’s… “Why don’t I feel right?”

She’s between me and the light, taking a breath through something over her nose. She looks like one of those people in a horror movie after they’ve been taken over by The Creature. “Can’t you smell that?” she says.

“No…?” But maybe I can; something acrid, mixed with something sweet, just like earlier when…

When the battery overloaded. My machine. But that should have aired out by now—

“Flora, I know this is scary and confusing but we need to _move.”_ Miss Altava’s shape looms forward and takes me by the shoulder. I’m cold, and my eyes feel funny, and something’s very very wrong and I yell in spite of myself.

“No! I don’t—what’d you _do_? Where’s Papa?” I try to kick her, to get away, but I miss or maybe she dodges. She hardly seems to move. I think it was only her grip that kept me from falling over.

“I _didn’t!_ Just trust me for five minutes, Flora. Five minutes, then I swear I’ll bug off. _Please.”_

Five minutes. More than enough time for Don Paolo to lock me in a barn. More than enough for my tower to collapse, for Papa to sneak out of his office without me, for Clive to drag me into his horrid mobile fortress.

I shake my head.

She lets me go.

I run for my room.

Thunder rumbles, and the floor lurches. One second I’m trying to keep my balance, the next I’m on the floor. Everything seems to be sliding. Wood splinters and my foot suddenly meets with empty space.

Hands grab me, pulling me away from the sudden hole in the floor, from the sofa that bucks and tips and falls right through it.

_Thudboom._

Silence.

Then screaming—no—the fire alarm. Not human screaming. No monstrous creatures, just huge, brown, _human_ eyes looking down at me. “Are you okay?” she asks.

I try to sit up. She lets go of me again, holding up her hands the way people do when they want to signal “wasn’t me” or “I’m not dangerous.” Neither of which I quite believe. But…

“Y-yes,” I manage. “N-no. Dizzy. Dizzy… _before_ that.” I wave my hand in the general direction of the gaping floor.

Her voice goes flat. “I’d noticed.”

“What… happened?”

Miss Altava winces. “It felt like an explosion.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may be amused to hear that the working title of this chapter was "AGGH" by virtue of it being the fifth semi-complete draft out of I'm-not-sure-how-many flailing attempts.
> 
> This has no relation whatsoever to the content of the chapter. Well, no intentional relation.
> 
> * * *

 Another rumble goes through the building, followed by silence. The lights puff out like candles, leaving only darkness and a faint smell of smoke.

Miss Altava rattles off a string of words I’d never heard until I started university. She takes a deep breath. “Flora, are you hurt anywhere?”

“…No?”

“Grab my hand, okay?” Her shadow moves closer. “Let’s make for Luke’s—uh, your room. It’s closer than the front door.”

“But there’s no way down from there.”

“I’ll take the window over an uncontrolled drop.”

Is she _serious?!_ We’re three stories up!

She just waits. Her breathing starts to rasp a little as more smoke rises from the floor.

…From what _was_ the floor. My throat itches. I take her hand.

We lurch into my room. The floor isn’t flat any longer, but there’s light at least, dim blue over everything that seems to brighten as we come in. The window sucks up the smoke from behind us; Miss Altava pauses to shut the door. Then she gasps. “What the—“

It’s the runes, I realize. Every symbol seems to gather light; one runs into another like an enormous, shining circuit board. I stretch my hand toward the machine and feel my hair stand on end, but not from electricity. Circuits. I’ve spent my week drawing out _circuits,_ but the power source…

“Don’t!” Miss Altava grabs my arm before I can touch. I try to pull away and she grips harder. “What is that thing doing in here?!” I open my mouth and she slaps her forehead. “Damn it. Now’s not the time.” She drags me over to the window without even looking at me.

We’re nearly there when another explosion shakes the world. Miss Altava stumbles. The grip on my arm loosens and my legs collapse like jelly. Glass shatters. We cover our eyes as splinters and chunks of plaster rain off the wall.

“That one was outside.” My own voice sounds tinny and distant.

“No shit.” She pulls her shirt up over her face, breathing hard. But her gaze goes not to the broken window (and the billows of smoke outside) but back up to my machine.

Which is still glowing, and not a gear out of place _._ Not _one._

“How…?” I breathe.

“Azran,” she mutters, in between curses. “Did he build this?”

She means Papa. Of course she does. “I built it.”

She looks at me, really looks, and says, “Why?”

“He—“ _Smoke._ I cough until my throat is raw, until I can get a few breaths through my blouse. “He left it for me.” And what does that matter now?

She picks herself up. “…Fuck it.” And pulls the switch.

_But we have to get out of here—she didn’t even ask me—I thought she didn’t want us to touch it!_

None of those thoughts make it out of my mouth before my eyes shout _BRIGHT!_ and my stomach threatens to turn itself inside out. Miss Altava screams; I hear her fall but I can’t see anything, just blue. Even covering my eyes doesn’t shut it out.

Gears creak and grind, and don’t stop. I peer through my fingers, squinting.

The air ripples, like it did earlier, but this time a thin line forms in the arch, stretching from top to bottom like a zipper. It’s a whisper against all the glowing but it brightens, strengthens, then—splits. Fireworks go off inside my head, blinding me for an instant, and then the incredible blue light dims, sucked into the edges of where the world has blown open like a curtain flapping in the wind. Icy but smokeless wind slaps me in the face. The sounds of fire, the sirens outside my window, the rumbling and people shouting—all seem distant, as if we’re in a bubble. I reach out and catch the edge of the world—it tingles against my hand—and draw it aside to see sunset, and what might be a blanket of snow meters below us. No buildings, or people… or explosions.

It’s worth a try.

Miss Altava’s curled herself in a ball on the floor with one arm wrapped over her eyes. The other hand grasps uselessly at her jacket pocket. Something in there is glowing, just like the runes. I crawl over to her because my legs still feel like jelly. “Miss Altava?”

“Nnggh...”

“Let’s go.” Her entire body goes rigid under my one hand on her shoulder. I let go. “Please?”

“Where?” she croaks.

“I don’t know.” I didn’t know this was even possible. “Out. Away.”

It takes a few interminable seconds, then she groans and pushes herself to her knees. I pull her up to her feet or maybe she’s pulling me. She still hasn’t opened her eyes.

“We’re going to fall,” I tell her.

She nods. “Bend your knees.”

“On three,” I say. “One. Two.”

I send up a silent prayer to God and Papa (my first papa, the one in Heaven) that this comes out okay.

“Th-three.”

We step through the curtain into thin air.


	9. Chapter 9

Wind rushes, we both scream, and then it’s over. I spit out a mouthful of snow. Miss Altava lets go of me, rolls over and retches. Above us, the gap in the world stretches, fades, and disappears.

Seconds later, a flock of winged not-quite-humanoid creatures swoops out of the sky, whirring and clicking like St. Mystere when I was still small. Are they people? Robots? Their skin looks like polymer or smooth brown clay, marked with pale gold circles.

I don’t know when Miss Altava stood up but the moment they land she lunges at them, spinning as her foot meets the air instead of its target. “Flora,” she yells at me, “run!”

All my muscles scream when I move, and my right knee refuses to bend at all until I pull my leg under me with my hands. The creatures’ whirring drops to a low-pitched buzz. I slip and stumble down the side of the snowdrift as Miss Altava spins and kicks in every direction. And then thrashes, as four of them grab her arms and legs and lift her clear off the ground. She doesn’t make a sound except for the _thwack_ of an occasional blow landing and the rustle and rip of her clothes. Run? I’m in house slippers. Everything around me is snow and more snow. Where did she think I could run to?

One of the creatures shoots a bolt of fire, just centimeters above her head, and all thought of running _anywhere_ vanishes.

“Stop!” I yell. “Leave her alone!”

Everything goes very still. A dozen heads swivel silently in my direction.

Miss Altava’s stopped fighting. Her face is smooth as ice. Even hanging in mid-air, with her legs and arms pulled behind her, she looks like a coiled snake ready to spring. I try to breathe; can I smell singed hair? I can’t. Only cold.

 _Go,_ she mouths. But if I move, if she moves…

There has to be another way.

The biggest fire-creature half-hovers, half-walks closer to me. I can’t quite look them in the eye. “Are you the leader?” I ask.

 _Whrrrr-bizzzz-buzz-beep!_ Their face lights up for an instant. Really lights up, I mean; a reddish-purple glow behind their eyes and along every seam between the pieces that make up their head.

I hope that’s a yes.

“Let go of my friend, please.”

 _Vrrrrrrr-BEEP!_ the creature exclaims. This time every one of their dozens of joints lights up.

“Flora, what the fuck!”

I turn to glare at Miss Altava but her eyes are almost all pupil. She didn’t look scared a second ago. Maybe she knows something I don’t.

It’s got to be hard to breathe in that position.

“I’m sorry she attacked you,” I tell the leader. “But I need you to put her down.”

A cocked head.

I lift both hands. Slowly, since both sides of this fight will react to a sudden move. “We’re not going to run away. That would be kind of silly. W-what with you having firebolts. Can… _all_ of you do that? I’ve never seen anybody before who…” What am I saying? I’m not back in St. Mystere where I could ask anyone a question about anything!

 _Vree-vree-vree!_ Their glow subsides except for a swirling sparkle around their eyes.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

 _Vree-umph._ Was that… a chuckle?! They turn, waving one briefly-shining hand, and the creatures holding Miss Altava let go. She lands hard on her hands and knees, then staggers right back up to her feet.

“Stay there!” I shout. _Now_ I move, right into the middle of the circle of many-jointed, firebolt-shooting, not-quite-glowing beings. “Are you okay?” I ask her.

She looks at me a little like I’ve grown a second head, and a little like people look at Papa right after he’s solved a case for them.

I turn to the leader and say, “Thank you.”

They nod at me stiffly, like it’s not something they’re used to, then point up at the sky. The spot we fell from has melded back into the air.

“You saw us,” I say. “You… you want to know what we’re doing here?”

 _Vruuuuu._ Another stiff nod.

I curl up freezing toes inside my slippers and start to explain. “My papa disappeared a few days ago. But he left me these pictures…”

I’d been away in my village all weekend. It was late, and I took the tube to the university because Papa didn’t meet me at the station. When I opened the office door, there were books and broken pieces of china everywhere. I found Papa’s hat crushed under an encyclopedia, and that’s when I knew something was wrong. I didn’t find the photo negatives until the second day.

“So I didn’t know what it was—but I built it, to see. And then today…” What _did_ happen today? I’m freezing, and it’s getting dark, and everything’s a blur. “It worked. Somehow. It was like the air split open, and, and now we’re here.”

“We didn’t have much choice.”

Huh?

Miss Altava speaks with her eyes squeezed shut. “Someone was trying to kill us.”

I gasp. Then I sneeze.

“The professor’s building didn’t just _happen_ to have a boiler explode in the basement,” she croaks. “And you didn’t just _happen_ to be dizzy and muddled when I got there, Flora. I think you were drugged.”

Drugged? But I really _wasn’t_ thinking right until we got to my bedroom. The window was open there, and nowhere else, and if that means what I think it means…

“Look…” Miss Altava reaches blindly in my direction. I grab her hand and hold tight. “I wasn’t going to let you hurt her. But—I can’t—so whatever you’re planning on doing to us, could you please just get on with it?”

She still hasn’t opened her eyes. If she did she’d see them slowly clustering together in front of us. We’re not surrounded anymore.

The leader points, and twelve bolts of fire shoot _away_ from us, melting a straight trench toward what looks like another snow drift a couple hundred meters away. They look at me, motioning in that direction.

And they _wink._

Before I can figure out if these people even have eyelids, the whole group takes flight and vanishes into the rising cloud of steam.

Miss Altava’s eyes pop open. “What in—” She stares at the new pathway, then at me.

In answer to her unfinished question _(what in hell just happened?,_ probably) _,_ I say, “I think they decided to help us.”

“…You really are your father’s daughter.”

“What does that even mean?!”

“Thinking. Seeing good in everyone and everything. Even Azran golems, of all bloody things…” She shakes out her head and arms like a wet dog. “Where’s your coat?”

“I don’t know. I must have dropped it before…” I gesture at the sky.

She shrugs off her backpack, then her jacket, and drapes the latter over my shoulders.

“You don’t have to—“

“Cold doesn’t bother me. I grew up with worse.” A quick rummage through her bag; she produces a shapeless wooly jumper that might once have been yellow and yanks it over her head. “How’s your head?”

“Better. Less fuzzy. …Azran golems?”

I manage not to squeak in the face of her piercing look.

“Is that what they were? H-how do you know?”

Miss Altava silently does up the straps on her bag. She stands. The cleared ground is still soft, and takes the impression of her boot, but when she lifts her foot the mud doesn’t stick. No answers, then. My legs feel practically frozen, but I clump after her down the passage.

“The first time I saw those things…”

My feet tangle. I throw out my arms to keep my balance.

“They were destroying everything. We almost died stopping them. I don’t know why I’m still…” She shakes her head and keeps walking.

“Wait, _everything?”_

She shrugs. “More or less.”

“But—how? Were you still working with Papa then—?”

 _“Oi!”_ A distinctly human voice sounds from the far end of the snow passageway. “Hey, you two idiots!”

Miss Altava’s head snaps up. “Who’s there?”

A flicker of movement emerges from what looked like a wall of snow, racing up the path toward us. “Don’t kick them,” I mutter.

“Not your call,” she snaps.

But now the runner’s near enough to see: a mop-headed child, nine or ten, with hair so blindingly ginger it rivals the sunset. They skid to a stop in front of us. “What’d you think you were doing? You were right up next to ’em! Mum says you _never_ go that close. Ever! That was… it was…” Their attempt at a scowl shatters. “It was _amazing!_ How’d you get ’em to clear a road?! Do they talk? What do they look like up close? What’re you even doing up top? Did you see that big purple sparkle in the sky? The blazers went right for it, Mum’s gonna hate that she missed it—”

“Hey, scamp!” Miss Altava almost smiles. “Slow down, eh?”

The “scamp” makes a face.

“We fell,” I put in. “Do you know where we are?”

The child grins like a wolf puppy. “That’s easy. ’Bout three kilometers northeast of the shaft to New London!”

New… London?

“We really _are_ lost,” Miss Altava remarks. “Kid, do you live around here?”

The child nods. “Follow me. My mum can get _anyone_ sorted!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The child in question was going to be properly introduced in this chapter, but the storytelling intervened. You'll just have to wait and find out who they are… ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends. I swear, every chapter is fussier than the last… enjoy.

The child (“Fen,” he tells us, “Alfendi for long but don’t bother”) leads us down through a snow-encrusted manhole into a labyrinth of old pipes and tunnels. Miss Altava flows after him as easily as water. I grit my teeth and follow. Now that the shock of almost dying is wearing off, every step makes my right knee throb like picarats.

I will _not_ fall behind.

A small eternity passes. “Nearly there!” Fen declares at last. “Next right.”

As if in response, my foot slips. Pain shoots through my leg; I go sprawling. I’m not going to cry. Not here, not in front of her.

“Are you okay?”

She’s right in front of me. I can see that even as Alfendi and his lantern vanish around the bend. She holds out her hands.

My cheeks flame and I shake my head. “My knee. I think I sprained it when we fell.”

The lantern flame bobs back into view. “Hey,” our young guide calls out, “what in blazes are you two hanging around for—oh.”

Miss Altava just snaps her fingers, never taking her eyes off me. I am helped, or maneuvered, into a sitting position, and then Fen’s holding the lantern high and Miss Altava’s wrapping my knee in an ace bandage. (Does she carry them around with her? Ow…)

“How far?” she asks.

“Toldja. Right around the bend.”

“In _meters,_ scamp.”

“Um.” He counts on his fingers, sets the lantern down to switch hands, snatches it up again in the face of Miss Altava’s glare. “‘Bout as far to the lift top end from here as the bottom end to our house. Right across the street. Mum doesn’t walk too fast.”

She looks at me. Blinks. Rubs her eyes brusquely; looks again. “Au—Flora. Can you make it?”

I made it this far. I nod.

“C’mon then.” She helps me up. I still think I might slap her if she bungles my name again.

* * *

I know Alfendi’s mum the minute I see her. Claire.

Half of her face is crisscrossed with scars and she walks with a bright green cane, but her smile is just as kind as I remember. She’s properly Papa’s age now; I think that is what convinces me.

“Inside,” she says to us, “both of you. You must be half frozen.”

Miss Altava nods mutely, still staring right through Future London—which is _also_ long gone, or it should be, but here we are. My knee still hurts and my head is starting to spin; we exchange halfhearted, first-name-only introductions (“Emmeline,” my companion says softly), and I apply most of my concentration to drinking the tea that finds its way in front of us. It’s as good as Papa’s, as good as Miss Altava’s or Luke’s or even mine.

There is only one logical conclusion, and I keep it to myself.

Miss Altava’s tea sits on the table, untouched as it gives up on steaming.

* * *

Claire doesn’t ask many questions, just ushers us into misshapen but dry spare clothes and a pair of bunks on either side of a dim, moderately dusty room. (“Rest up. We can talk in the morning. We haven’t had new people down here in ages.”)

Tired as I am, it’s hard to sleep. Every sound in the cavern echoes, and on the other side of the room, Miss Altava will _not_ stop tossing and turning. I bury my head in the pillow.

“…no…please…”

I push myself up on my elbows. “…Miss Altava?”

The lump of blankets in her bunk doesn’t answer, only whimpers.

Every cell in my body wants to lie back down. Instead I slip out of bed. The floor sucks the warmth out of my feet as I limp across the room.

“…Emmeline?”

The moment my hand touches her cocoon she yelps; I jump back, barely escaping the punch she throws along with the blankets.

“Hey!” I yell.

She drops back against the pillow, gasping. I can’t see her face clearly, just a pale shape against a mass of dark hair and two black holes for eyes. “Shit,” she croaks. “Aurora… I’m sorry…”

“Stop calling me that!” I hiss. “I’m Flora. Flora Rose Reinhold-Layton. _Flora!”_

She inhales sharply, rubbing a hand across her eyes.

“I don’t even know anyone named Aurora.” I try to keep my voice from shaking.

When she speaks again her tone has somehow gone from tears to ice. “Go away.”

I stomp back to bed, eyes stinging, and pull the covers up over my head.

I have to sleep. If I don't I won't think clearly, and I have to, or we’re never going to get home again. I squeeze my eyes shut. _Hush little baby don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don’t sing…_

“Aurora… was… she died.”

I lift one edge of the blanket.

“She came with us,” Miss Altava says thickly. “My last trip with the professor. She’d’ve been about your age by now if… it was my fault. You… look a little like her.”

Luke shouted “it’s _you!”_ the first time he got a good look at me. I wonder if he thought I looked like someone. I wonder if Papa did, or does.

“But I'm not her," I say. "I'm me."

"I know,” she says. “Flora. I’m sorry. I can’t stop remembering, lately.”

I sit up slowly, hugging my pillow. “What happened to her? Aurora?"

Miss Altava’s voice cracks. “I _really_ don't want to talk about it."

“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.

Her breath slowly evens out but she doesn’t answer. Then: “Emmeline Altava Bronev. Since you told me all of yours.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No shit.” She rolls onto her side, putting her back to me. “Look… just Emmy’s fine. ‘Miss Altava’ never felt right on me.”

“…Okay. Emmy.”

She’s quiet.

”Did you know that machine was going to do that?" I ask.

She exhales. "No. Don't even know if it was _meant_ to do that. Just thought it’d be quicker than burning alive."

"You thought—?!”

“Told you. Somebody tried to kill us. Tried to kill you, more like. Unless Targent saw me in London.”

"Unless—who? And why me?"

"You're close to the professor. And it looks as if you were on to something."

I was?

Yes. I was. I _am._

“I think I know where we are,” I say softly. “Fen—he doesn’t exist in our London. And Claire… it gets complicated, but she’s been dead for almost fifteen years.”

“How is that possible?” Funny. There’s nothing mocking about her tone.

“An alternate timeline,” I say. ”We went—between, somehow. I know it's unlikely, but when you eliminate the impossible—”

“Whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.” Miss Altava—Emmy—sits up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “Goes double if the professor’s mixed up in it.”

I giggle in spite of myself. "Papa never gets mixed up with anything simple, does he?"

She chuckles weakly. “Not that I ever noticed.”

I wonder.

”Luke said you were Papa’s assistant for a long time."

"Among other things." Her silhouette curls up smaller. "Best three years of my life."

I risk a question. "Why did you—“

"Leave?" She lets the word snap like a windblown, dying tree. "I fucked up. Big time. And they deserved better."

I pull my knees up to my chest—knee, when the sprained one protests. “But you're here…”

The lump of blankets nods.

"You saved my life today."

"And you saved mine. That doesn't make us friends."

“Maybe I want to be your friend." (Where did that come from?)

“…I don't really do that stuff anymore,” she mumbles.

“Oh.”

“ ’snot about you.” I can’t even make out her head anymore.

I lie back down.

“Flora…?”

“Hmm?”

“The pictures… I… might know somewhere to look for the professor. People I can ask. But—you ought to go somewhere safe. I don’t want anyone else tangled up in… that.”

Something white-hot uncurls in my stomach. “Do _I_ get a choice about this?”

“Uh…”

“I’m tired of being left behind,” I say into the darkness. “I’m tired of not knowing, and I’m _especially_ tired of everyone I know deciding they know what’s best for me.”

“That’s not why.”

“Isn’t it?”

Her breathing goes ragged again. “People who get tangled up with these… folks… regularly end up dead. Or wishing they were.”

“Then why are you looking to face them all by yourself?”

No answer, just a woman sprawling herself headlong across a sagging bed.

“I’m coming with you,” I tell her.

“You don’t understand…”

“No. I don’t. But he’s my papa, and he’s your friend, and I’m not going to hide away doing nothing. I’m coming with you. Okay?”

Silence.

Then: “Okay.”

I let myself sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just looked at the dates on this fic and realized I've been posting it for two years and ten days as of this chapter. And there was the better part of a year of prewriting (for all the good it did me—ha!) before that.
> 
> Wow.
> 
> Happy longfic anniversary?


	11. Interlude (Layton)

_He has not seen his captors' faces; the room containing him is dark, and when someone comes to bring him out they blindfold him. His mind is fogged and flickering with dreamlike images (in his more lucid moments, he thinks they must be drugging him), and it hurts to walk; he is unable to focus on the path that takes him to the hard chair and the echoing room, and the voice._

_“Good evening, Professor. Ready to negotiate yet?” Her dispassionate tone never fails to chill him; that, and the almost-familiarity of her accent and affect. She is the only one here who speaks to him._

_He doesn’t answer._

_A chair scrapes on stone. “Well, I’ve got a surprise for you. Maybe then you’ll rethink a little bit.”_

_He hears the click of a tape player, the hiss of unrecorded air layering with the fizzing sound of radio static._

_“—breaking news, still searching for survivors after fire destroyed an apartment building—”_

_He hears his own name, hears “unclear how the blaze started” and “residents made no attempt to flee despite the rapid spread…”_

_He can see it. The shiver that ran through the building, ground-floor windows shattering, smoke pouring into the sky as orange flames licked their way up…_

_Click. The tape stops. He feels colder, and doesn’t know why._

_“Your daughter lived at home, didn’t she?”_

_Understanding floods him like ice water. Flora. Flora was—Flora—is—?_

_“Hah,“ his captor remarks. ”So you do have flesh and blood.”_

_His heart makes its beating emphatically known. He was careful. He had a contingency plan. This wasn’t... it can’t..._

_“Look, Prof.” Her voice becomes closer; warm breath brushes his face. “The longer you’re here, the longer anyone’s looking for you, the higher the chance that I have to do something about it. If you work with me, then maybe I can get you back home before that’s an issue.”_

_Better not to speak—to give up nothing—but if Flora—“Where is she?” he croaks._

_She kicks him in the shin, ignoring his smothered cry. “I’ve just explained that. I’m telling you how to keep it from happening again.”_

_(In the back of his mind—imagination, surely, or memory—a one-time assistant rolls her eyes.)_

_“I can wait,” she says calmly. “Or you can give me a hand, and we can both find some world where none of this ever happened.”_

_His mind aches like an overused muscle. He needs a plan; he can’t trust her intentions. This could all be a trick. (Please, let it be a trick. Let Flora be all right, and Luke, and—)_

_“I’m waiting for an answer, Professor.”_

_“...Yes.”_


End file.
